


We Can Run Away Now They're All Dead and Gone

by lanthano (epilanthanomai)



Category: 28 Days Later (2002)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-09
Updated: 2017-06-09
Packaged: 2018-10-30 04:53:22
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,696
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10869504
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/epilanthanomai/pseuds/lanthano
Summary: Not really a sequel to the first 28 Days Later fic I wrote, but in my mind the characters are the same.





	We Can Run Away Now They're All Dead and Gone

_One step too far is not far enough away from here._  
  
The first time Jim tried to break down a door, he ended up with purple bruising all up and down his shoulder and the door unharmed in front of him. Selena ran up behind him and kicked it down, and he might have been surprised, once, but nothing Selena did surprised him anymore. She didn't stop when he called to her, but she did minister to him that night.  
  
After the adrenaline had died down, and his stomach had stopped clenching long enough to let him put down his pack, he'd stripped off his shirt and tried to twist around to see where he'd hit the door. Selena unzipped her first aid kit and opened it onto the floor of the liquor store they'd used as shelter. She wouldn't look at him straight on when she probed his sore arm but she did press a couple of pills into his hand before setting off to explore the exits of the shop. Selena at her best: short and surly but infinitely competent. Saving his life, again.  
  
  
Jim thinks about Selena a lot that night, when Sergeant Farrell has dropped off to sleep. Farrell had railed against the others for hours before exhausting his rhetoric and falling into silence. He'd stared at the walls, then, rubbing the back of his neck: unself-conscious ticcing, the movement as infuriating as his incessant shouting, a constant repetition of restricted motion: trapped: strapped down: imprisoned.  
  
Jim is unsurprised, again, when West opens the door of the cell. West stands in the open doorway, blocking the exit but not entering either. He's a dark silhouette against the yellow light of the hall. His uniform cuts clean lines. Jim lets his eyes adjust to the light. He's learning, see: carry a weapon at all times, don't get blood in your eyes, think before you move. Anything is a weapon if you mean it. Pay attention to what your body is telling you. Look after yourself, don't let anyone slow you down, and use what you have to get what you need.  
  
Speaking would wake Farrell, so he stands, speechless, and walks toward West. He can't help lifting his chin as he approaches—pride warring with necessity—crossing his arms in helpless belligerence. This is a contract. He is trading goods. He needs to get Selena and Hannah out, and these are the only goods he has. Any illusions they had about government or order or the safety of soldiers are gone. Hannah and Selena. He makes himself uncross his arms.  
  
West won't touch him: classified material, eyes only. He's waiting for permission. Jim nods and West turns abruptly, gesturing as he walks, leading Jim to his office. The scotch is still out and Jim drinks from the bottle. His mouth is dry. He's breathing between sips—throat scorching, head swimming, chest warming—and he hears West shut the door. West shuts the door. West bolts the door. West stands in front of the door, shoulders straight, standing at attention—Jim feels sick, whisky in his stomach sloshing: stomach clenching—pistol at his hip, keys in his pocket. The key to setting Selena free. The one who'll keep Hannah safe.  
  
Jim looks at the door. It doesn't look that strong. He's learned from Selena what to do: how to aim for the lock with his boot and put everything he has into it: how to save his life. The door isn't that strong. When West takes off his shirt and touches his arm: hesitant: cool fingers gripping lightly—West doesn't look him in the eye, either.  
  
West doesn't have callused hands. It's a shock to Jim. A softness—not weakness, not in this man, this soldier, these choices—West's hands not catching on his skin. They glide along. They linger in places: a moment on the thin skin over his collarbone, an exploration of the scars the car left after knocking him off his bike. Knocking him out of his life. West doesn't pause. There is no relief, just a constant touching: a pained pleasure, this sting of wakened pleasure, like blood rushing into numbed flesh, a peach after weeks of chocolates and crisps, hot water and soap, Selena's lips, clean clothes on his skin, West's hands. Jim feels tears spring to the corners of his eyes, and, shamed, he turns away and hides his eyes—West's hands on his throat, low pressure on his Adam's apple—he reaches for West's trousers. He refuses to be an unwilling participant. This is his contract, and he will hold to it.  
  
West's fingers tighten at the feel of him, closing around Jim's throat. Jim shifts his head restlessly, adjusting his grip, grimacing at the pressure. He gives another squeeze and West releases him: pushes him back to the desk and leans over him. His cheeks are soft: freshly shaven, this gentleman officer. His lips are soft on the tender skin of Jim's neck. He tastes of whisky. They stay there, kissing, the edge of the desk cutting into Jim's back, West's wiry frame holding him there, the chill in the air, smell of furniture polish and man, old wood and aftershave. Kissing makes Jim embarrassingly hard. He knows the flush in his cheeks spills down his chest: knows West will see it. Jim pushes up, cock against cock, and West stills. He's not frowning, not smiling either, just blank. Intent. He moves his hips forward slowly. Jim tries to keep expression off his face—feels his mouth go slack, his eyes shut—and they're kissing again, again, two tongues, one taste.  
  
Jim lets West slide him further onto the desk: strong hands beneath his thighs: strong hands unzipping his trousers and yanking them down. Jim curls up a little—clothed in air, nothing there but West's hands, the rough canvas of his uniform—his heart thudding, pulse thudding in his ears. West must have three inches on him: bigger, taller, stronger. Jim's starting to breathe quickly, edge of panic knifing low in his gut and he tells himself _Shut it stop it,_ savagely, _stop it._ He sits up—pushes West up with him—tucks his fingers beneath the edge of West's shirt and pulls it off. He lets it fall to the side, looking at West: rail-thin: ridges at each rib, smooth planes at his stomach. Jim takes hold of West's belt and tugs West back toward him, and, keeping his eyes on West's face, he unbuckles and unbuttons and unzips. West is standing between his hips.  
  
He says, "Jim," and Jim watches the way his mouth curls around it—Jim—breathed into his ear and mouthed into his neck, wet and teeth dragging— _Jim_ —hands finding ticklish spots behind his knee, along the back of his thigh—Jim catching his breath as they come closer, closer, and stop. Jim lets his breath out in a rush, blushing again. West is looking down at him: wry smile, warm eyes. Pale eyelashes.  
  
West crawls on top of him—taller, stronger—full contact in chest and thigh, breath to breath. He pays particular attention to Jim's neck and then they're kissing again, thrusting against each other and kissing, sounding wet and pornographic, loud in the quiet of that big room in that big house. Kissing in a house full of soldiers, naked and hard, helplessly thrusting—pushing into that warm dark space between them, ignoring protests in back and thigh, knocking his head back on the hard wood of the desk—neck again, West's mouth and weight, thrusting, pinned down and coming, helplessly thrusting, white noise in his ears and muffling his cries with his hands. One perfect sensation. His hips jerk once more—oversensitive pleasurepain—and he's struggling to catch his breath as West goes silent stops breathing comes.  
  
There are little white spots swimming in Jim's vision, and he manages to organize his limbs enough to move West to the side so he can breathe properly—holds him there until the glazed look falls from his face. Pale eyelashes, blinking. And they're grinning like idiots, kissing on raw lips, and West's hand on his jaw is tender.  
  
West tilts his head, considering him. He says, "You'll stay, then."  
  
Jim plays that back in his head, turning it this way and that, trying to see if there's any way he'd misunderstood. Maybe he'd missed the fine print. His voice feels like he hasn't spoken for hours. "Hannah and Selena?"  
  
"There's nothing can be done about them. But you'll stay."  
  
Jim's chest feels tight: tension leaked back into his shoulders strangling his voice. "No. No, you can't. Hannah's just a girl."  
  
"And you were a boy until you had to kill one of the infected. Hannah needs protection, Jim. We can protect her here."  
  
Hearing his name makes Jim wince. Spoken in the same voice. It means nothing. They're going to put him outside and it means nothing. "It's you she needs protection from."  
  
West flinches. He picks up his clothing and dresses and there's violence in the jerkiness of his movements. There is no suggestion of smooth-knit kinesthetics. West drops his shirt and bends to pick it up again. He holds it in his hands for a moment. He keeps his eyes fixed on the shirt. He says, "Please reconsider."  
  
Jim's blind with panic, can feel his gorge rising. Hannah. Selena. Him.  
  
He smiles. It would be so simple. He says, "I can't," and he squeezes West's shoulder and reaches for his own clothing. He dresses quickly. This is what his body feels like: this: this arm bending, this stretch of skin and tendon and muscle as he bends his knee, the pain in his knee a messenger's ache. There is strength in this body.  
  
He lets West lead him back down the hall to the room where Farrell is still asleep. He doesn't make West push him in. He walks on his own, and he faces the door when West closes it. Jim tries to smile again—to say It's okay, I know, it's okay—but West doesn't hesitate. He closes the door, and locks it.  
  
---  
 


End file.
